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Abecedarian for Convalescence

Updated: May 30, 2020

Angels speak from my open wound where the light leaks out and the

blossoms in my mouth

cut my tongue the way needles bled my skin for art. the

dregs in the teapot remind me of

every twist behind the praise and so I down the lot,

flicking my tongue to catch every

gritty bit.

heathens are better hydrated than their priests; but

in spite of flags the ocean tides remain outside any

jurisdiction and the moon has left me parched and salty. I’ve never

known a filthier heiress.

lo and behold!

man is inadequate after all. in fever, my punctures point me to the

nexus of bone and brick; so I prepare myself for the

offing,

play a chopin nocturne in anticipation. in the neon glow I downed a

quasi-cocktail and thought myself a

riot.

spare me from whatever it is, I pray, strip me of my carbon

then thatch me with stalks of wheat. when

ulysses swallowed himself still he was the

vision of a

wayword seraph. if I use the

xylem of the birch tree in place of gauze, perhaps this

yellow flesh would grow scabs of moss, a pond,

zooplankton and algae – the makings of a universe.



This poem was originally published on Typishly in Oct. 2018.

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